


5 A.M.

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Chronic Pain, Domestic, M/M, Married Couple, post-Mayfield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 09:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Wilson is used to House tossing and turning in his sleep.





	5 A.M.

**Author's Note:**

> i love these two. they're married. i love them
> 
> fills my 'food and cooking' square in trope bingo, and my 'housewife/househusband' square in gen prompt bingo
> 
> enjoy!

Wilson doesn’t wake up from House tossing and turning in his sleep. It’s common, a thing he’s grown used to in the years they’ve been together. It’s always either a nightmare he won’t ever tell him about or his leg— the nightmares could have quite a few possible contents, but House never opens up about it.

After Mayfield, House turns more in his sleep. They fall asleep tangled together and he wakes up with the blankets all to House’s side. He’s half-asleep, half-awake, when the bed dips and House wakes up, saying curses and walking out of the room.

There’s no Vicodin in his nightstand anymore. Wilson lets himself open his eyes, grumbles nonsense. He stays there for a few moments that seem to last forever. The alarm clock tells him it’s three minutes to five in the morning. One of the light switches is turned on, and light basks what must be the kitchen.

Wilson straightens up, confused, and gets his underwear. He puts it on and yawns, stretching before getting up. He walks barefoot, trying to ignore his heart beating hard against his chest. Is House already looking for something to take? Is he already in so much pain?   


He steps closer to the kitchen, and House is there. He’s not looking through the cabinets.

He steps closer, and his face immediately twists in confusion. House is… making tomato sauce? He has a thin book in his hand, a cooking book, and his bad leg is bent so his good leg supports most of his weight.

“House?” he says softly.

House straightens up, his body tenses, taut and unsure.

He smiles and walks closer to him. “You’re cooking?”   
  
House draws in a breath, keeps stirring the sauce, and puts the cookbook on the counter. “Yeah.”   


Wilson hums and leans in to peck him on the lips. “Don’t you have any non-narcotic?”   
  
“I’d prefer to take no drugs for a while, doctor.”   
  
Wilson snorts. “Okay. Are you going to eat pasta with this?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Then…”   
  
“It’s for tomorrow. If you want to eat, of course.”   


Wilson’s smile widens. “Of course.”   
  
House’s muscles relax, his breath comes out more calm. His eyes are lidded and he looks exhausted; from the pain, from his team wanting him to come back, from Cuddy asking if it has anything to do with her. 

He just wants the best for his husband.

The clock ticks five in the morning.

“House,” he says softly. “You don’t have to go back.”   
  
“I know.”   
  
“Although I don’t know how well you’ll adapt to the househusband life.”   
  
“We’re missing a kid or two,” House replies dryly, taking the wooden spoon out and putting the lid back on.

Wilson laughs and wraps his arms around House, kisses his jaw, his stubble tickling his lips. “You’re quite a grumpy housewife.”   
  
House grumbles and pulls him away, elbows him on the ribs. Wilson makes a choked off laughter noise, and steps closer to him again. 

“I love you.”   
  
House nods. “You wanna try my sauce?”   
  
Without missing a beat, Wilson replies, “Weird euphemism.”   
  
“And  _ I’m _ the dirty-minded one in our relationship?”

Wilson laughs loudly and takes the lid off and gets a bit with the spoon. He licks it clean and makes a surprised hum, eyes opening and him looking at his husband. “It’s really good!”   


“Thanks. You're acting as if it's the first time I cook, ever.”

Wilson rolls his eyes. “We've lived off take out for the last five years, let me live.”

“Absolutely not.”

He laughs and leans in to kiss House, then puts the spoon down. “Are you sure you don't need anything?”

He shrugs and goes to put the tomato sauce in the right place. “No. Cooking helps.”

“With the pain?” he fills in, brows knitted together in worry.

“Uh-huh.” He takes the sauce pot and puts it in the fridge before drawing in a sigh and leaning against Wilson. “It’s… a lot.”   
  
“You still haven’t told me much about Mayfield.”   
  
“Tried to get out by any means that wasn’t actually complying for a while, had a weird kinship with my roommate, and—”   
  
“Hold up, hold up, hold up,” Wilson interrupts him. “Weird kinship with your roommate? As in friendship? As in genuine human connection?”   
  
“Oh fuck off,” House says, rolling his eyes and elbowing him.

“You made a friend!” Wilson exclaims, incredulous. “What did they do to you over there?”   
  
“He was annoying,” he says, taking his cane and heading back to their room. Wilson sits on the edge of the bed, looking up at his husband with a giddy, infectious smile on his lips. “And I was forced to share a room with him.”   
  
“Tell me about him.”   
  
“Uh, Puerto Rican, wannabe rapper, bipolar, doesn’t shut up ever. He was uh, endearing, I guess. He forced me to rap with him at the talent show.”   
  
Wilson sees right through him, and his eyes light up. He laughs a little. “Forced you?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“You’re lying.”   
  
“Fuck off.”   
  
“You rapped with him willingly!”   
  
“Maybe.”   


Wilson gets up and peppers kisses all over his face. “So you do have a soft spot for people!”   
  
“I really don’t.”   
  
Wilson keeps kissing him— his cheek, his jaw, his nose, that spot in his throat that makes a laugh bubble up in the back of his mouth. “You’re such an idiot.”   


“Your idiot, though.”   
  
Wilson smiles and pecks him on the lips. “Exactly.”   


House rolls his eyes and leaves the cane on the wall before crawling into bed, Wilson doing the same. They stay silent for a few seconds, the room quiet except for their breathing and House’s hands roaming over Wilson’s arms, like he’s trying to make sure he’s still there, he’s still there and will always be there.

“Does it hurt?”   
  
“It always does.”   
  
“House —”   
  
“Yeah, I know what you meant. It’s not that bothersome.”   
  
Although, twenty minutes later, House curls up next to Wilson, touches all over his torso, never getting enough of his husband’s shape. He roams around his torso, presses at his arms, wraps his arms around his middle and tries to stay still.

He’s not getting a blink of sleep like this.

“I love you,” Wilson tells him.

House nods.

“Good night.”   
  
He swallows thickly, nods. “Good night.”   


Wilson holds him, and when House turns and tosses and gasps curses into his neck a few hours later, he doesn’t complain, and doesn’t ask, and tries his best not to fret. 


End file.
